Paroles de Any Old Irony?
At the vanguard of a juddering caravan,hurriedly galloping down a dirt-track.
Six furtive figures, crooked as Caliban;
Smuggling hope to the land of the claque.
Weary, hoarse-riders; irksomely blistered.
Spent from a decade a-roving the road.
Frigging a jig for our brothers and sisters;
Stark-raving-madrigals by the cartload.
Without trepidation I sing in laudation;
Vocal salute to all travelling tinkers.
Vagabond nation joined in congregation.
United free-thinkers cry from the bryony;
"Any old irony?!"
[Chorus:]
Come one, come all to our travelling circus;
Cast-off your cares for the painted parade.
Whirl down the wynd like dervish-berserkers;
If life hands us lemons; we'll make lemonade.
Maybe Jay's smashed (?), drumming up passion;
Scarring forever with each brisk tattoo
Bean's in the place so bass is in fashion, Desperate-Dan-Ramsey; deft fingers diddle.
Watching The Match on a telly stage-side.
The cat on the fiddle, Miss Georgie Biddle;
Keeping it reeling with her fugue electric.
Stuck in the middle I'll rhyme you a riddle;
Irate and eclectic my cry from the bryony;
"Any old irony?!"
[Chorus:]
Come one, come all to our travelling circus;
Cast-off your cares for the painted parade.
Whirl down the wynd like dervish-berserkers;
If life hands us lemons; we'll make lemonade.
Frigging a jig for our brothers and sisters;
Stark-raving-madrigals by the cartload.
Without trepidation I sing in laudation;
Vocal salute to all travelling tinkers.
Vagabond nation joined in congregation.
United free-thinkers cry from the bryony;
"Any old irony?!"
[Chorus:]
Come one, come all to our travelling circus;
Cast-off your cares for the painted parade.
Whirl down the wynd like dervish-berserkers;
If life hands us lemons; we'll make lemonade.
Maybe Jay's smashed (?), drumming up passion;
Scarring forever with each brisk tattoo
Bean's in the place so bass is in fashion, Desperate-Dan-Ramsey; deft fingers diddle.
Watching The Match on a telly stage-side.
The cat on the fiddle, Miss Georgie Biddle;
Keeping it reeling with her fugue electric.
Stuck in the middle I'll rhyme you a riddle;
Irate and eclectic my cry from the bryony;
"Any old irony?!"
[Chorus:]
Come one, come all to our travelling circus;
Cast-off your cares for the painted parade.
Whirl down the wynd like dervish-berserkers;
If life hands us lemons; we'll make lemonade.
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